Untitled

the hotel smelled of
mold and bleach and it was where she was
careful, and alone, and on stage, and self
involved and she didn't drop it or raise its
hairy self up in the air and
smash it down on a rock point, hard hard
hard to crack it, split it, with all the satisfaction of a
well-earned split, like a lip, and the dry
smear of blood that leaves, like a feathery
brush of blush on paper, a demo, this is how you can
make yourself up, to look good, to be
pretty, or beautiful, but I digress -

the hotel smells like red wine
on her breath in the morning, from the pores, from
the neglectful way she keeps her clothes, expensive and poorly
laundered, from the way she bangs away at it
without enough conviction
to split it
hairy side from hairy side
clean split
and the white flesh exposed
to eat deliciously into
the clean fluid
coming forth.